


The Last (Only) Thing I Want To See

by fanatic_by_definition



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: (mild) hypothermia, Angst, Blow Jobs, Christmas, Cold Weather, Fighting, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Hiatus, M/M, Pining, Road Trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 00:40:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5519138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanatic_by_definition/pseuds/fanatic_by_definition
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Patrick stares at the phone in his hand, reading the digits he’s typed out over and over until they blur together in front of his eyes. It’s an old number, a familiar one, one of the three he knows by heart, but he hasn’t dialed it in so long. Which is why his thumb has been poised over the green CALL button for a good five minutes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He wants to call. In a way, he feels like he has to, for the sake of his own sanity if nothing else. But it’s a whole lot easier said than done at this point.</em>
</p><p>###</p><p>Pete and Patrick haven't spoken in a year. Patrick's miserable, but he just feels too guilty to even attempt at making amends. When Chicago--and Pete--is throttled by a huge blizzard two days before Christmas, all thoughts of guilt and regret go flying out the window of a rental car as Patrick scrambles to get to his ex-best-friend and make sure he's okay. The trip...doesn't exactly go as planned, but maybe that's not entirely a bad thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last (Only) Thing I Want To See

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by a prompt from blakesmilitia's "i'm always a slut for a christmas au" list on tumblr. this one goes out to my twitter friends in particular--especially my Official Reviewer, who keeps me from second-guessing myself and is more than half the reason I actually publish all the shit i write.
> 
> merry christmas, lovelies!! hope you enjoy :)

Patrick stares at the phone in his hand, reading the digits he’s typed out over and over until they blur together in front of his eyes. It’s an old number, a familiar one, one of the three he knows by heart, but he hasn’t dialed it in so long. Which is why his thumb has been poised over the green CALL button for a good five minutes.

He wants to call. In a way, he feels like he _has_ to, for the sake of his own sanity if nothing else. But it’s a whole lot easier said than done at this point.

The band’s been “on a break” for two years now. _Soul Punk_ ’s been out for just over two months, and it’s already shaping up to be a ridiculous fucking failure. And the most ferocious blizzard of the past eighty years has been walloping the Midwest for three days without ceasing. The center of it? Chicago, of course, given its perfectly (laughably) vulnerable position on the southern shore of Lake Michigan. Power outages are as common as icicles in both the city proper and all its suburbs; cars are being abandoned on Lake Shore Drive under five and six feet of snow, and seventeen fatalities have already been counted across three states. Merry fucking Christmas.

Patrick’s been sitting in his kitchen streaming WGN on his laptop for the past few hours, watching the coverage of the storm and hoping to God he won’t see any shots of familiar streets or subdivisions in crisis. So far most of the damage has been on the near-South Side of the city, but the weather is getting worse further inland, and the heavy snowfall and harsh winds have been creeping their way north for the past several hours. North, towards Patrick’s real home in Glenview.

North, towards the only member of Fall Out Boy who’s in Chicago right now.

On one hand, Patrick’s glad he’s 2,000 miles away from that devastation, languishing in sixty-five-degree California Christmas comfort. On the other, he’d give anything to be there right now, just to know if Pete’s—

 _Shit. Stop._ Patrick sets his phone down on his kitchen table and sighs, running his fingers agitatedly through his unkempt reddish-blonde hair (the bleach had faded a couple weeks ago). He’s gotta stop thinking like this. Pete’s probably fine, and the last thing he’d want is his cruel, selfish ex-best-friend calling randomly in the middle of the night just to ask if his house is buried under a twenty foot snowdrift. Pete had grown up enduring Chicago winters—surely he’s prepared enough for this one? He’s the most resourceful person Patrick’s ever met; he’s probably been stocking up on canned food and candles and backup generators for months.

_Maybe you’d know for sure if you’d fucking talk to him._

The singer winces at the voice in his head and takes another sip of his lukewarm tea, scowling at the dark screen of his phone. It’s the day before Christmas Eve—maybe he could call just for a minute and pretend it’s a friendly holiday check-in? A quick “Hey, how are ya, hope your shopping is going well” wouldn’t go amiss, right? But then again, wouldn’t he be a dick if he didn’t ask if Pete was okay in the crazy weather? Patrick knows Pete’s parents are safe—they’d moved to southern Illinois last year, and Patrick’s had followed suit soon after—so he couldn’t divert the conversation to them in an attempt to mask his true intentions.

He’s in the middle of mentally berating himself for overthinking this way too much when a new weather report flashes on the screen of his laptop. Patrick sets down his tea and watches intently, hanging onto an exhausted-looking Tom Skilling’s every word.

_“The storm system appears to be expanding further and further north into Wisconsin, and entire towns are losing power in the north and northwest suburbs of Chicago. The residents of these suburbs are strongly advised to stay indoors until further notice, and that shouldn’t be too difficult to do, since city snow plows have been largely unable to restore the streets to a drivable condition. These five suburbs in particular have had both the most snowfall and the greatest number of power outages, and they are currently under a serious winter storm warning…”_

A map appears on the screen behind Skilling’s portly frame, highlighting a group of suburbs north of the city. Patrick’s eyes stretch wide as he leans forward to get a better view of the screen. “No,” he mutters, heart in his throat.

_“…So that’s Evanston, Skokie, Glenview…”_

“Please, no.”

_“…Niles, and Wilmette.”_

Fuck.

_“Governor Quinn is expected to declare a State of Emergency for the entire Chicagoland area sometime tomorrow morning if the blizzard continues to grow in intensity at this rate. As always, the WGN Weather Center will be keeping you updated twenty-four-seven on any further developments. Check our Facebook and Tw—”_

Patrick mutes the broadcast and picks up his phone, fingers trembling as he unlocks it and starts dialing Pete’s number again. When he glances back up at the computer, they’re showing blurry images of downtown Wilmette completely covered in snow and ice, abandoned cars littering the streets. Patrick recognizes one of the restaurants—that’s _fifteen fucking minutes_ away from Pete’s place.

Before he can stop himself, Patrick presses CALL and holds the phone to his ear, eyes still glued to the screen of his laptop. He doesn’t care that it’s midnight in Chicago; he has to try this.

“He’s probably fine,” he whispers to himself as he counts the faint rings. “He’s fine, he’s okay, just ask him if he’s got enough food and tell him to stay warm or something.” God, he is far too anxious about this stupid phone call, but it’s justified, he thinks. Patrick hates himself for putting Pete on radio silence for the past year, for the things he said (screamed) the last time they were in a room together, for the dreams he’s been having more and more frequently about laughing with Pete and holding Pete and kissing Pete breathless—

“H-lo?”

And suddenly there’s Pete’s voice, crackling brokenly through the tiny speaker. Patrick takes a deep breath and grips the phone so hard he’s afraid he’ll crack the screen. “Pete?”

“…atrick?”

Fuck, the signal’s terrible. Probably the wind. But it’s _Pete,_ and he’s _saying Patrick’s name,_ and Patrick feels a little like crying. “Pete!” he says louder. “Are—Are you alright, can you hear me?”

“…an’t hear…” Pete actually sounds like he’s 2,000 miles away. “…cold…ere are y…”

Patrick’s heart freezes. “Cold? Are you cold?” _Is his heater broken is he even at home what if he’s camping out in someone’s basement or trapped in a car somewhere_ “Pete, please, try to—fuck, you’re barely fucking coming in, is there somewhere else you can—”

“Pat…orry…”

“What? Pete? _Pete!”_ Before Patrick can get a response, the line’s gone dead. He stares blankly at the wall opposite him for several long seconds, then takes the phone away from his ear and redials.

All he hears is a series of low, monotonous beeps. Pete’s unreachable.

The phone slips from a nerveless hand and clatters to the table. Patrick stares down at it, then flicks his eyes back to the screen of his laptop. The latest forecast says the blizzard is supposed to worsen overnight, especially on its northern end, and even the feed from the news station is flickering in and out now.

This is bad.

Patrick worries his bottom lip between his teeth, wondering what the fuck to do. Should he just wait till morning and try to call Pete again? No, the worsened winds will probably make it even harder to connect to him. That forty-three-second fragmented conversation is probably the best he’s gonna get for the next few days, and that…that’s not acceptable.

He’d known he’d missed Pete, but now that he’s heard Pete’s voice again—as tinny and static-filled as it was—it’s like there’s a string tied to his heart that’s tugging him back to Chicago, back to the streets of his youth and the arms of his friend, where he’s supposed to be.

He’s supposed to be next to Pete on the couch in his living room, sharing a pizza and writing their next chart-topping single. He’s supposed to be making obscure movie references in the middle of a conversation and laughing when Pete somehow manages to recognize them. He’s supposed to be holding a guitar and blushing as Pete compliments his voice and tells him for the millionth time in an hour that he’s golden.

Hell. He’s supposed to be in Chicago _right now,_ at Pete’s side, braving this storm with him instead of sulking and hiding from his problems in a mansion in the Hollywood Hills.

Yes, Patrick’s relationship with Pete is strained right now. Yes, he’s still kind of pissed at himself. And yes, old romantic feelings that he’s kept buried for almost a decade are starting to crop up again. But Patrick wants— _needs_ —to make sure Pete’s okay. Despite everything that’s happened, Pete is, has been, and probably always will be Patrick’s best friend in the entire fucking world, and dammit, Patrick needs him. Needs him safe, needs him healthy, needs him _here._ He loves Pete, is _in love with_ Pete, and he’s done running. Nothing—not a broken band, not a year of silence, not even a giant fucking blizzard—is gonna keep Patrick away from Pete any longer.

Huh. If there’s anything that can repair a broken friendship, Patrick reasons, apparently it’s severe weather.

He checks his watch—it’s 10:30. There probably aren’t any more flights leaving for Chicago tonight, but there should be plenty leaving after midnight. He opens a new tab in his browser and Googles “lax to ohare”, mentally crossing his fingers. Three minutes later and he’s tracked down the earliest flight available—five a.m. tomorrow morning, Christmas Eve. If it isn’t delayed, it should land in Chicago around eleven local time. Patrick buys the first one-way ticket he sees, scant funds be damned, and slams his laptop shut before heading upstairs to his bedroom to pack.

The largest duffel bag he owns has enough space for his laptop, four outfits, essential toiletries, and seven cans of soup. He can snag some food for himself on the plane, he decides as he zips it closed and props it up beside his bed.

In the back of his mind, Patrick knows he might end up regretting this. But the thought of Pete alone in the middle of that storm, probably without power or heat, makes the singer’s stomach roil. All he knows is he needs to get to Pete.

And yet, when the lights go off and Patrick buries his face in his pillow, all he can think about is what the hell he’s gonna say when Pete’s eyes meet his.

 

***~*~*~*~***

 

**_November 2010_ **

_“Oh my god,_ fuck _you, you fucking asshole!” Patrick spits, stomping across the living room to get his things. This was a terrible idea._

_“Right back at you, dick!” he hears Pete shout behind him._

_“I can’t believe I thought this was a good idea,” the singer grouses, angrily shrugging on his slim black coat. So much for a writing session—he should’ve never come here. “Can’t fucking believe I thought for one fucking minute that maybe you’d grown up!”_

_Pete scoffs at him, crossing his (thin, so very thin) arms over his chest. His Metallica tee hangs off him like it’s three sizes too big, but Patrick knows it used to fit him perfectly. “Well sorry to disappoint you, Mister Responsible-Mature-Solo-Artist!”_

_“Yeah, you did!” Patrick says, snapping his head up to fix Pete with a vicious glare. “You fucking_ did _disappoint me, Pete! That’s all you seem to be good at lately, isn’t it? Fucking disappointing people—your band, your fans, your_ wife _—” He knows he’s being cruel, but who cares. Pete fucking deserves it._

_“Wow.” The borderline-emaciated bassist applauds him slowly, exaggeratedly, expression utterly blank apart from a spark of pure rage in his glossy brown eyes. “Wow, Patrick, good one, didn’t think you had that in you! C’mon, ‘s that all you got? That cheap fucking shot the best you can do, motherfucker?”_

_No, it isn’t. Patrick buttons up his coat with shaking hands, muttering under his breath, “Fucking psycho, fucking selfish, lying, crazy—”_

_“Oh, now_ I’m _the selfish one? You’re the one who fucking broke up the band, Patrick!”_

We’re not broken up, we’re just on a break, it won’t be forever, it won’t _… “—douchebag, why the fuck did I even try—”_

“You _wanted the break!” Pete stalks over to him, shoving him in the shoulder once. “You fucking hated me, said you needed to get away from me for a while, and now you’re calling_ me _selfish? God, listen to yourself!”_

_Patrick glowers at him, then looks back down as he slips his shoes on. “Such a megalomaniacal bastard,” he continues, venom lacing his tone. He doesn’t even care what he says anymore. “If this is what Ash had to deal with, I can see why she fucking left.”_

_Pete actually steps back a couple paces at that. His expression morphs from furious to stricken, like Patrick’s finally crossed a line. Good. After a couple seconds, he snarls in an oddly strained voice, “She’s not the only one who left me, you self-righteous sonuvabitch!”_

_“I know!” Patrick shouts, advancing on him. “‘Cuz she wasn’t the only one who was fucking fed up with your bullshit!”_

_“I didn’t_ ask _to be like this!” Pete screams hoarsely. He’s red-faced and shaking where he stands, staring at his old friend in enraged disbelief; Patrick actually shuts up for a minute, a little shocked._

_“I didn’t ask to be a…a mess,” Pete continues more quietly as pools of hurt well up in his eyes. Patrick feels the beginnings of remorse blossoming in his chest against his will. “I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t mean to scare away every fucking person I’ve ever met with my fucking problems. I didn’t mean to fall in love with Ashlee, or to make her love me, and I sure as hell didn’t mean to make her leave. I never meant to lose her. And I—” His voice breaks off in a pathetic sob and when he blinks, a pair of tears track down his flushed cheeks. He stares at Patrick defiantly, never once breaking eye contact. “—I never meant to lose my best friend, either. I-I don’t even know what I did, but…I guess it did the fucking trick, huh, ‘Trick?”_

_He spits out the nickname like a mouthful of sour wine, and God. Patrick feels awful. He has no idea what came over him. The anger and adrenaline flood out of his system, immediately replaced with guilt and concern. He blinks slowly, raising a placating hand as he takes a cautious step forward. “Pete…”_

_“No.” Pete closes his eyes, emotionless. “We’re done here. Get out.”_

_“Pete, I’m—”_

_“I said. Get. The fuck. Out of my house.” Those whiskey-colored eyes Patrick had missed so badly mere hours ago are vacant and stoic when they open again, despite the tears flowing from them. “I don’t know who you think you are, but you’re not the Patrick I…the P-Patrick who…” He pauses and bites his lip, then continues shakily, “You’re not_ my _Patrick. And I don’t want to see you again until he’s back. Now go.”_

_They stare at each other for several long moments. After enduring the cold silence for long enough, Patrick feels his heart harden again. Somewhat reluctantly, he tears his gaze away from Pete’s and turns towards the door. “Fine,” he whispers icily as he turns the handle. “Sorry I wasted your time.” The door slams behind him like a threat._

_It’s not until he’s in a cab and halfway back to his hotel that Patrick thinks he should’ve shut Pete up with a kiss instead of hurling insults at him. That thought drives him to drink himself to sleep, something he hasn’t done in months. He pukes it all up in the morning and knocks himself out with Xanax on an empty stomach (a very Pete move) during his nine a.m. flight back to L.A._

 

***~*~*~*~***

 

The small commercial plane is packed with travelers either leaving home or heading there. Patrick isn’t sure which category he fits into yet.

The flight attendants have finished their breakfast rounds, passing out tiny muffins and biscuits and eight-ounce bottles of water. Everything’s just stale enough to be mildly unpleasant, but Patrick eats his anyway, grateful for the small portion sizes. He’s still working on that “diet” he’d started last year that had managed to lose him sixty pounds in three months, and so far he hasn’t gone over 130 since last winter. He’s pretty fucking proud of himself, if he’s honest, and he knows Pete was at some point, too. He remembers—or thinks he remembers, at least—the way Pete’s eyes had raked over his newly-slimmed frame the last time they were together. “Look at you, Sexy McStump!” he’d chuckled, slapping Patrick on the shoulder playfully. Patrick had tried his best not to blush.

Two hours later they’d been at each other’s throats. Patrick’s heart clenches at the memory, and he digs his nails into his palms to force himself to stop fucking thinking about it. If they’re ever gonna get past that stupid fight, they’ve gotta forgive themselves for it first. It’s just that Patrick doesn’t know if he ever will. All the shit he’d said to Pete…they were the kinds of things he would’ve ripped someone else apart for saying. In fact, he has before.

Then again, what _wouldn’t_ Patrick do for Pete? He’s in love with the man, has been since he was a pretentious sixteen-year-old and Pete was a fucked-up local celebrity who played for like fifty different bands. For fuck’s sake, he’s flying across the country on the morning of Christmas Eve into a giant fucking blizzard, just to make sure Pete’s okay. If that doesn’t scream True Love, Patrick isn’t sure what else could.

He just hopes Pete doesn’t kick him out when they see each other again today. Not that Patrick doesn’t _deserve_ to be kicked out, he totally does, he just…

Fuck. Was this a bad idea? Well, he’s probably around 25,000 feet in the air at this point; it’s a little late to reconsider now. Patrick sits back in his chair and tries to breathe, gripping the armrests on either side of his seat with bloodless fingers. If anyone asks, he’ll blame his strange behavior on airsickness.

The four-hour flight is half over when the intercom dings above Patrick’s head. He removes his headphones and listens with the other passengers, expecting a normal announcement about turbulence or something.

_“This is your captain speaking. Due to adverse weather conditions over Chicago, all flights inbound to O’Hare and Midway are being forced to re-route and land at the nearest possible airport outside of Illinois.”_

An irritated din spreads throughout the plane as people start fussing. Some of them might not make it to their destinations before Christmas tomorrow—Patrick might not make it to Wilmette by tonight if they don’t land close enough. He listens intently to the rest of the information, peeved and panicked at the same time.

_“Because all airports in southern Wisconsin are also compromised, this flight will be descending into Cedar Rapids, Iowa, at Eastern Iowa Airport in approximately three hours. Taxi, shuttle, and rental car services will be available…”_

Patrick zones out after that. Cedar Rapids to Chicago? That’s a four-hour Interstate drive _without_ traffic or pit stops or, y’know, apocalyptic blizzards. He’s gonna need to rent a fucking tank to get to Pete’s before nightfall. On top of that, he _hates_ driving. If that State of Emergency thing happens, they’re bound to close all the eastbound lanes of every major highway heading into the city, if not close the highways completely. That means he’s gonna have to deal with icy side streets and detours and traffic patrols, too, probably.

Will this suck? Most definitely.

Is Patrick still gonna do it? Yeah, he is. He has to.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Patrick briefly marvels at how punk rock this venture is. Ending with a kiss would make it almost perfect, but the singer isn’t exactly counting on that possibility. He’ll be lucky if Pete bro-hugs him.

Would even that be worth the trek? Hell fucking yes.

Patrick takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, letting himself drown in Costello’s voice for the next few hours. He’s anxious, but for now he needs his rest.

He’s got a long day ahead of him.

 

***~*~*~*~***

 

**_December 2010_ **

_Pete and Patrick haven’t spoken to each other for over a month now, which is the longest they’ve gone without contact since they met. There’s a gaping hole in Patrick’s chest where his best friend used to be, but he hasn’t even dared to call or text. He knows Pete wouldn’t pick up the phone, and if he showed up at Pete’s place unannounced, he’d probably get either a door or a fist in his face._

_Patrick knows he deserves it, though._

_To distract himself from the increasingly crippling bouts of guilt, Patrick has taken to doing Q &A sessions with some fans (and a few trolls) on Twitter. He’s in the middle of one now, lounging in his bedroom and sipping idly at a tumbler of scotch to loosen himself up. It’s been going well for the past half hour—he’s missed fan interaction, and some of the things they’re saying have really brightened his mood._

_But then he comes across a word in his feed he hasn’t seen in forever._

“@PatrickStump now that FOB is done (hiatus or whatever) whats going to happen with Peterick? ):”

_Patrick’s hand starts to shake. He runs his fingers through his freshly-bleached hair and stares down at the screen of his phone, wondering what the fuck to say to that._

_He knows what “Peterick” is, of course—it’s been around almost as long as Fall Out Boy—but he’s never been the biggest, er, supporter of it. Pete, on the other hand, always loved playing it up for whatever cameras would pay attention. He was always singing against Patrick’s neck during shows, kissing his cheek whenever they’d cover “Mr. Brightside”. Every time they went out in public or had some press to do, Pete would make a point of touching Patrick or complimenting him on his clothes or his face. And as much as Patrick had pretended to hate it, somewhere between Pete’s engagement to Ashlee and the subsequent marriage he’d begun to secretly ache for Pete’s eyes to stay locked on his, for his touches to linger a second longer._

_Alright, so maybe it had started before then. Maybe Patrick’s been dealing with these unrealistic pipe dreams of being with Pete since the first time he went to an Arma show when he was fifteen and watched Pete electrify the crowd with his charismatic smile. He’s not sure when “dealing with” the feelings morphed into “consciously fighting” them; there’s a chance that the shitshow with Anna and the failed fling with Elisa had made Patrick lonely and he’d actually considered trying to make a move on Pete at long last. There had even been times when Patrick had thought that maybe, deep deep down, beneath the insomnia and the self-loathing and the hurricane of words constantly swirling in Pete’s psyche, Pete felt the same way. But as the bassist went through relationship after relationship and finally ended up so happy with the gorgeous, slim, perfect Ashlee, Patrick had officially lost hope._

_And yet, he couldn’t shake the stupid fucking certainty he felt that he and Pete were soulmates._

_Pete gave parts of himself to Patrick that he never gave to anyone else—maybe not even Ashlee. It was Patrick who used to sing him to sleep in the back of their dank, sweaty van and in almost every hotel they’d stayed in since then. It was Patrick who Pete called when he needed reassurance that he wasn’t a worthless waste of blood and oxygen, and Patrick had always managed to make him laugh by the end of the conversation. It was Patrick who understood the workings of Pete’s mind like no one else on the planet ever could, and it was Pete who understood Patrick the same way. Patrick was the only person Pete ever called his best friend because Patrick was the only one who never, ever gave up on him even a little._

_Until last month, that is._

_Nausea and remorse settle over Patrick like a radioactive cloud and he barely has the capacity to type_ “What’s Peterick? Pete and I? We’re good, we talk regularly” _before he turns off his phone, chucks it aimlessly across the room, and tops off his glass._

 

***~*~*~*~***

 

Governor Quinn declares a State of Emergency in the entire northern half of Illinois about an hour before the plane touches down in Cedar Rapids. Patrick had been fervently hoping he wouldn’t have to deal with the traffic consequences of that, but it’s unavoidable now. He’ll just have to suck it up. If he has to break a few traffic laws to get to Wilmette before tomorrow, he will. Being arrested wasn’t so bad the first time he did it.

Once he’s retrieved his bag, Patrick weaves his way through the mob of angry travelers he’d flown with and makes a beeline for the car rental counter at the other end of the airport. He stops to grab himself a bottle of water and a bag of mini pretzels from a food stand—the in-flight lunch had been worse than the breakfast—and munches while he speed-walks.

“Hey,” he says with a charming smile as he approaches the counter. “I’d like to rent a car, please. A generic sedan is fine; I’m not really picky.”

The woman he’s speaking to has a young, lightly-tanned face and black hair, and her dignified pantsuit fits her well. Patrick commands his heart to stop hurting when she smiles and her warm brown eyes crinkle at the corners. “Of course, sir,” she says as she types something on the keyboard in front of her. “I’ll just need to see your driver’s license and a credit card.”

They get the paperwork settled relatively quickly and Patrick is given his choice of three cars. He picks the blue Civic for nostalgia’s sake and pays for a week of out-of-state use, putting yet another dent in his poor bank account. Hopefully that should be enough time.

As she hands Patrick the keys, the woman—Elaine, according to her name tag—asks him casually, “Where will you be travelling this week? Visiting family for the holidays?”

The singer isn’t sure how to answer the second question, so he focuses on the first. “I’m headed to Chicago, actually,” he says with a nervous laugh. “That’s where my flight was headed, but the weather got so bad that we had to land here.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard about that blizzard,” Elaine says with a solemn nod. “It’s supposed to be headed here in the next few days, apparently. Are you sure you don’t want a minivan or a pickup truck? Those roads are gonna be nasty.”

She has a point. But Patrick’s already paid for the Honda and it’s almost one p.m. and he just wants to get a damn move on. “No thank you, I think I’ll be alright,” he assures her.

“Okay, then.” Elaine hands him the keys and the rental agreement. “Just look for the lot outside with our labeled cars in it. Shouldn’t be too far of a walk. Happy holidays, and good luck!”

“Thank you,” Patrick says with a friendly grin and heads off in the direction she points him.

While he’s walking, he does some quick research on his phone: if the eastbound lanes of I-88 are closed, he’s gonna have to take a series of smaller major roads and highways that would lead him in a giant, crooked arc through northern Illinois before dropping him off in Chicago. His travel time would go from four hours to about six, which means he’d get to Pete’s two hours after sundown. Driving in a blizzard isn’t easy to do in broad daylight, but in darkness, it’s ten times harder. God, he hopes the interstate stays open. Sliding his rental car into a giant snowdrift and freezing to death on the side of some godforsaken road in Rockford wouldn’t help his chances at fixing things with Pete.

Hopefully Pete hasn’t frozen to death somewhere himself.

Patrick shakes that thought out of his head and pockets his phone as he exits the airport. It’s snowing here already, and he pulls his coat tighter around himself to fend off the brisk wind. He spots the right rental lot and adjusts the bag on his shoulder before setting off towards it, his anxiety increasing incrementally with every step he takes.

His duffel gets tossed in the back seat and the rental agreement is stowed safely in the glove compartment. Patrick situates himself in the driver’s seat and buckles himself in, taking a deep breath as he considers the enormity of the feat he’s about to attempt.

250 miles of icy roads stretch between him and Pete at the very least, about 350 at most. They haven’t seen each other in over a year, nor have they talked beyond the occasional superficial Tweet to keep the press from sniffing out their feud. For all Patrick knows, the bassist is perfectly content with this arrangement. He could be happy and safe right now in his well-heated house, sipping hot chocolate on his leather couch with some new young girlfriend under his arm. He could be staring at her contentedly, admiring her in the warm light from the fireplace, and waiting for the right time to give her that diamond necklace he’d bought last week. This whole thing—the desperate phone call, the flying 1,800 miles, the treacherous road trip Patrick’s about to embark on—it could all end up being pointless. He could _still_ get a door or a fist in his face, even after all this time.

Fuck. What’s he even gonna _do_ if he sees Pete again? What’ll they say to each other? It could all end with tears and insults like their last meeting did, and Patrick will have no one to blame for it but his own fucking stupid self.

Groaning in frustration, Patrick thumps his forehead against the steering wheel in front of him and squeezes his eyes shut to block out the world for a minute. He hasn’t thought this through anywhere near well enough. He should walk back to the airport, get a refund for this car, and catch the next flight to L.A. in time to spend Christmas with Brendon or Travie. That would be the easy thing to do.

_Just like walking out on him and cutting him off was the easy thing to do. Just like keeping your feelings bottled up for ten years was the easy thing to do. How fucking easy was it, really?_

Patrick bites his lip and sits up in his seat, determination quickly flushing out his doubt. He _will_ get to Pete. Maybe he won’t make it by tonight, but he’ll get there, dammit. He’s gonna knock on Pete’s door, step right up to him, and hug the fucking _life_ out of him. Sure, he’ll probably cry. And if he cries, Pete will cry, because that’s how Pete’s selfless heart works. And then Patrick’s gonna tell Pete exactly how fucking sorry he is and how much he’s missed him and how he never stopped loving him, not for a single fucking day, and he’s gonna beg for any amount of forgiveness Pete’s willing to give him.

Maybe he’ll get it all. Maybe he’ll get nothing. But he’s gonna fucking try.

He knows reception in Chicago is probably worse now, but he doesn’t care. Patrick pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials Pete again, waiting with baited breath until he hears the same depressing beeps he’d heard last night. He pretends it connected, though, and he starts talking.

“Pete. Hey. Um…So, I know you’re probably still pissed at me, and you have every right to be, ‘cuz I was a fucking dick and I have absolutely no excuse for it. But…I’m kind of in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, right now? A-And I’m sitting in a rental car—a fucking Honda Civic; perfect, right?—and I’m about to try to drive to Chicago to see you. I’ve been following the storm from L.A. and I tried to call you last night, but it didn’t really go through. Honestly, it kinda freaked me out, and I got sorta worried about you. So…I got on the earliest flight to O’Hare I could find, but it had to fucking land in fucking Iowa because the weather’s so bad in Illinois, so now I’m here and I’m headed there and I—I thought I’d try to call you again. But it, uh, didn’t work.”

Patrick pauses, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “I’m planning on telling you all this in person, still, but if for some reason I can’t make it or you kick me out—which, again, would be totally understandable—I-I wanted to get it out somehow. Even if you can’t hear it. I’m…fuck, Pete, I’m so fucking sorry.” His voice breaks on the last word and he blinks away a sudden prickle of tears. “All that shit I said about you being crazy and selfish and a disappointment…I didn’t mean it, okay? Not a fucking word. You are _none_ of those things, not even close. We were both high-strung that day and fucked up in our own ways and I— _we_ —exploded without meaning to. It was…a collision. An _accident_. And I’ve regretted it every damn day since it happened.

“I _miss_ you, Pete. So fucking much. It’s like a hole in my chest. I just hope…I hope this trip is worth it. I hope I make it to you, because I wanna see you smile again and tell you all this to your face and I wanna let you know how much you mean to me, a-and how—how m-much I—agh, fuck…”

Patrick swipes angrily at his damp eyes under his glasses with the back of one trembling hand, sniffling wetly. His phone falls to his lap and he shuts his eyes tightly for a moment, gathering himself. After his breathing is regulated, he looks up, grips the steering wheel in his hands, and looks out the windshield at the snowy air as a determined fire sparks in his chest. He’s gonna make it to Wilmette if it kills him, and when he gets there, dead or alive, he’ll finish that sentence properly.

The key turns in the ignition with ease and the engine revs into life. It sounds like the beginning of something monumental. Patrick punches Pete’s address from memory into the car’s on-board GPS before he pulls out of the lot and away from the airport. He turns left when he’s told, and he’s on his way to the interstate.

_I’m coming, Pete._

 

***~*~*~*~***

 

**_August 2011_ **

_It’s just some dumb radio interview in Nashville to promote his album, no big deal. Patrick can handle it—he’s done his fair share of press lately, and touring for_ Soul Punk _has done absolute wonders for his confidence in social situations. He’s gotten used to dancing and talking and singing his fucking heart out onstage, which are things he’d never had the balls to do with Fall Out Boy. Pete was always his spokesperson, his backbone, but now…_

_…Now, Patrick’s on his own. Has been since last autumn. He and Pete haven’t interacted at all outside a few meaningless Twitter interactions in the past ten months, and Patrick is still too ashamed and guilty to attempt at making amends. Any mention of Fall Out Boy puts another crack in his heart—he just wants to forget about that band, about Pete, as much as he can. Besides, singing Pete’s words without Pete by his side has always made Patrick incredibly uncomfortable. He’s a solo artist right now, and he wants to be treated as such._

_Which is why he’s caught completely off-guard when this_ dick _of a DJ hands him the lyrics of “Dance, Dance” while he’s taking requests from listeners._

_Patrick takes the sheet of paper and stares at it blankly, running the back of his hand over his mouth. His stomach hurts. “I said I would do Patrick Stump songs,” he reminds the other man._

_“Whaddya mean? It’s Fall Out Boy!” the asshole replies, and his co-host—who’s just as bad as him personality-wise—laughs and nods in agreement. “That_ is _a Patrick Stump song! C’mon, you know the words, do it! It’ll be the last one, promise.”_

_Patrick looks up at him, forcing himself to keep a neutral expression. Before he can reply, he hears a familiar bassline playing, and the DJ is giving him a half-smug, half-expectant grin. They’re on live radio—the singer can’t exactly lunge over the table and strangle him like he wants to. Counting down from twenty in his head, Patrick sighs, adjusts his headset over his ears, and starts to sing._

_In short, it’s probably the worst performance of this song he’s ever done. He’s sung Christina Aguilera karaoke better than he’s singing this. Every word brings back a different memory; every chord elicits its own pang of nostalgia and regret. Patrick stares at the words so hard his vision blurs and he can’t help it when his voice cracks during the chorus. This is_ hell. _Why the fuck did he agree to be on this stupid fucking radio show with this douchewhistle host and his crony? What’s the point of trying to promote his own music at all if everyone’s just gonna try to get him to talk about Fall Out Boy?_

_The song finishes. Patrick drops the paper and sits back in his chair, numb and drained. He politely joins in on the sign-off, but as soon as he’s told he can leave, he rips the headset off and storms out of the studio without a single word or backwards glance._

_Three hours later, when he’s huddled in a ball on his hotel bed after crying himself dry in the shower, he calls his publicist and his manager and tells them both with a scratchy, toneless voice that he never wants to play in Nashville again._

 

***~*~*~*~***

 

Since it’s Christmas Eve, it’s to be expected that Christmas music will be playing on every radio station everywhere. Patrick had hoped to avoid this phenomenon—despite the snow and the chilly air and the festive billboards along the highway, he’s really not feeling all that jolly—but his hopes had been dashed twelve minutes into the journey. Not only is a decent radio station hard to find between eastern Iowa and western Illinois, nearly all of them are coming in static-filled and sparse due to the weather. When Patrick finally finds one that doesn’t sound like it’s being broadcast from underwater, it’s playing a non-stop Christmas playlist.

Joy to the fucking world.

He tries to make the best of it, though, singing along to all the songs he knows and testing to see if his voice can go as low as Burl Ravenscroft’s.

Most of Patrick’s attention is re-directed to the horrific road conditions once he finally reaches Illinois. Iowa had been manageable, but he soon understands why _this_ weather is considered an Emergency. Snow is falling fucking _sideways_ and his poor little car is getting bullied relentlessly by the wind—usually when he changes lanes, it’s intentional. Not today. It’s all he can do to avoid swerving into the concrete partition separating his relatively-empty lane from the ten-mile-long pileup of cars trying to leave the state. The eastbound lanes aren’t closed, shockingly, but they aren’t getting much use right now. Patrick is glad he can’t see the faces of the drivers heading west as he passes them—he has a feeling most of them think he’s insane. The only other vehicles driving east within a mile of him are some tough-looking SUVs and a few semis, and even those are driving about twenty miles under the speed limit.

Patrick had made it through almost a hundred miles of Iowa in an hour and a half, including a stop for gas. In the same amount of time, he’s covered probably thirty miles of Illinois. Despite the near-vacant roads, he’s practically crawling down I-88 on account of the fact that he can’t see ten feet past his front bumper. It’s four p.m. and the sun is already going down; although its light had been scant to begin with due to the clouds, Patrick would much rather have poor sunlight than none at all. Now he has to deal with twilight _and_ tumultuous wind _and_ sheets of snow five feet thick falling from the sky without stop. The Civic’s windshield wipers are covered in ice, so they don’t help much when Patrick turns them on in a desperate attempt to re-gain some visibility.

Right when he thinks he might be getting the hang of this, Patrick encounters a five-mile stretch of highway on which he counts twelve sets of hazard lights belonging to cars that have slid off the road. One of the cars looks vaguely like a Hummer. Panic rises in the singer’s throat like bile as he passes it. He hasn’t driven a car himself in three months; he is so fucking out of his depth here. Praying his tires have good tread, Patrick cranks up the heater a couple more degrees and presses on.

To keep himself calm, he starts singing along to the static-y radio again. There’s only one station he can pick up and it’s weak, but the Christmas songs are all recognizable. His voice is hoarse (he hasn’t had nearly enough water today) and his throat is tense with anxiety, but he doesn’t stop.

_“I-I’ll be home for Christmas_

_You can count on me_

_Please have snow_

_And mistletoe_

_And presents under the tree…”_

It’s almost completely dark out now and the wind is picking up, hurling ice and snow at Patrick’s car. His heart is pounding out of his chest, but he keeps driving, blinking away his frightened tears. The only thing on his mind is _Pete Pete Pete_ —he keeps an image of the bassist in his head as he continues to sing.

_“Christmas Eve w-will find me_

_Where the love light gleams_

_I’ll be h-home for Christmas_

_If only in…m-my dreams…”_

The songs play in intermittent bursts of sound and Patrick sings along with every one until his voice is hoarse from overuse. If he doesn’t know the lyrics, he hums and taps a rhythm on the steering wheel. When a stretch of static lasts for longer than two minutes, he’ll start singing songs from _Soul Punk,_ belting out every run as best he can and wincing at the strain on his throat—he really should’ve thought to buy more than one water bottle at the airport. He also should’ve bought more than the pretzels, because by six p.m. he is _empty._ His stomach is cramping painfully and soon he’s singing to distract himself from the pain as well as the weather. He wants to stop at an oasis, but at the rate he’s going he might not make it to Wilmette before midnight, so he can’t afford a half-hour break.

He does, after five hours of nonstop driving, pull over onto the shoulder for a minute to pee out the passenger side door. The wind almost whips everything back into the car and Patrick has never felt anything like the bite of sub-zero temperatures blasting his naked dick. Hadn’t Bear Grylls gotten frostbite on his one time? Did it fall off? Patrick doesn’t fucking know or care—he just does what he has to do, screams into the wintry maelstrom (then regrets opening his mouth), and sets off again. Luckily, the whole experience shakes the drowsiness out of him.

It’s almost seven by the time Patrick reaches a blessedly familiar road: I-294. Unfortunately, it’s closed. Patrick curses and drives past the exit he was supposed to take, waiting for the GPS to re-route him. Eventually it does, and it leads him on a jagged path north. He recognizes the names of the towns he creeps through—Wheaton, Rosemont, Des Plaines, Niles—and he starts to feel less scared. But not everything is comforting: Patrick can’t see much of the residential areas from his position on the highway, but from the condition of the major roads, he can only imagine what the side streets look like. Cars are probably completely buried in snow in every driveway, leaving families stranded in their homes for days. Patrick desperately hopes that Wilmette will look better than it did on the news last night.

He passes O’Hare Airport at one point and rolls down his window for ten seconds just to flip it off.

Around nine, Patrick turns off the GPS. He’s made it to his own hometown of Glenview; he doesn’t need satellites to tell him how to get around anymore. He’s so close to Pete now—maybe five miles away—and as he starts to recognize restaurants and other businesses, he sends up a desperate prayer for the ability to stay awake and alert for this final stretch.

It’s a good thing he prays, because about two miles later, the Civic gets stuck.

When he turns off Golf Road and finally enters Wilmette, Patrick also enters—or _tries_ to enter—residential streets. And they are simply unpassable. Ice and snow are piled up as far as he can see with the wind still blowing fresh flakes around like crazy, and it’s clear that no cars have dared to traverse these roads in the last two or three days at least. So it’s really not that huge of a surprise when Patrick tries to turn down an utterly disastrous street with his tiny front-wheel-drive Honda and manages to slide sideways into a mountainous six-foot drift.

He steps on the gas and begs. The wheels spin and spin and spin, moving him nowhere.

“Fuck! _Fuck!”_ Patrick beats the steering wheel with his fists and shouts out every curse word he knows in every language he can speak. This can’t be happening, not here, not now. He was _so fucking close._ Three more miles and he’d have made it—

Wait. He’s not really about to give up when he’s only three miles away, is he? Fuck no.

There’s one other way to get to Pete, but Patrick really, _really_ doesn’t like the idea of it. It’s fucking twenty below outside—if he spends longer than, like, thirty minutes in these conditions, he’s bound to get frostbite somewhere on his body.

Then again, he knows the route from here by heart. He’s driven between his house and Pete’s countless times over the years. If he keeps walking and doesn’t stop, he could make it in forty-five minutes; he _knows_ he could. He’s starving and exhausted and he’d be carrying a thirty-pound duffel bag over his shoulder, but he wouldn’t drag his feet.

There are two things in the universe that Patrick would die for: his family and his band. Pete is a combination of both of those things. He _loves_ Pete; he’d hike through three _hundred_ miles of snow for the man, let alone a measly three. He’d take a bullet for Pete, even after everything that’s happened with them and the band. This? A brisk walk on a moderately snowy Christmas Eve? This is nothing.

Patrick double- and triple-checks the remaining route on the GPS before grabbing his bag from the back seat and turning off the car. It should be safe if he just leaves it here with the doors locked; so long as he remembers this intersection, he’ll be able to retrieve it when (if) the weather clears up later this week.

The singer takes a deep breath, soaks in the last of the artificial heat, and pushes the driver’s door open.

His only thought as he takes his first heavy steps is _Cold._ All Patrick can feel is cold—the wind howls in his ears and slashes across his face with invisible, icy claws that make his eyes water behind his thick-framed glasses instantly. He hadn’t thought to bring his puffy parka or his expensive snow boots along for this trip, having expected a three-hour flight and a one-hour cab ride to shield him from the elements. So he’s setting off into this Ice Age in leather dress boots, thin gloves, a thin black pea coat, a flannel scarf, and one of his old knit beanies. Perfect.

He can’t stop, though. No matter how tired or cold he gets, no matter how badly his stomach or head or fingers might start to hurt, he needs to keep trudging forwards. He can do this. He’ll make it.

He has to.

 

***~*~*~*~***

 

Patrick has no fucking idea how long it takes him to reach Pete’s snow-laden subdivision, nor does he know how he managed to make it there in the first place. All the blood flowing through his numb, stiff body has to have been turned to ice at this point. The only things on his mind as he walks are Pete’s laugh and his voice and the fondness that used to glow in his deep brown eyes when he would smile at Patrick. These thoughts distract Patrick from the biting cold and the fact that he can’t feel his hands, feet, or face by the time he reaches the right street.

As he staggers along the last block, Patrick blinks frozen tears out of his eyes and fights the wind, shivering so hard he’s afraid he’ll drop his bag again. The faint glow of the few working streetlights beside the unplowed road illuminate the numbers on the mailboxes; this is an affluent part of Wilmette, but evidently not even they are immune to power outages. Patrick passes dark house after dark house and he has to keep repeating Pete’s address under his breath so his exhausted brain doesn’t forget it. _So close so close you’re so close don’t give up now keep going keepgoingkeepgoingdon’tstop…_

Finally, Patrick squints through his ice-covered glasses and deciphers the right number on a mailbox in the near distance. “P-P-Pete,” he stammers, teeth chattering, and his steps miraculously speed up.

Every window of the familiar home is dark, but Pete’s car sits dormant and immobilized in the driveway, so he must be home. _No power no power is he okay—?_ The doorstep is covered in three feet of snow that Patrick has to push aside with his nerveless limbs before he can collapse against the solid oak door.

Using up the last of his strength, the singer pounds his numb fist against the door as hard as he can and shouts hoarsely at the top of his voice, _“PETE!”_

After that, he’s done. His eyes slip closed, and he can’t open them again. His chest aches from breathing in the bitter air and he’s so hungry and cold and _tired_ but despite all that, despite everything, he made it. He’s _here_. Even if Pete doesn’t let him in, he got here. It’s enough to make his frozen lips smile just a little.

Patrick barely feels the burst of warm air that hits his face when the door opens. Someone calls his name, but they sound so far away. He coughs, his knees give out, and the last thing he registers before his mind goes blissfully blank is a pair of strong arms catching him as he falls.

 

***~*~*~*~***

 

He isn’t sure where he is when he first wakes up, because he still can’t open his eyes. All he’s aware of is the smell of a wood fire and the blessed heat of another body pressed against his, wrapped around him beneath a thick, heavy blanket. He’s shivering and he whimpers when he tries to move, every muscle in his body protesting.

The person beside him stiffens a little. “Sssh,” a familiar deep voice croons close to his ear, and the arms around him tighten their hold. “It’s okay, ‘Trick, you’re okay. I’ve got you. Just rest. Go back to sleep.”

He does, melting into the embrace.

 

***~*~*~*~***

 

When Patrick comes to again, he’s alone under the blanket, but he isn’t cold anymore. His eyes creak open and it takes a few seconds for them to focus, but when they do, everything is still blurry—except for the coffee table a couple feet from his nose, on which his glasses are folded neatly. His hand darts out from the warm cocoon to grab them.

Once the thick frames are perched on his nose again, Patrick recognizes the living room he’s in. There’s a fire still crackling in the fireplace across from the couch he’s lying on, and the framed photos on the mantle are all of people Patrick hasn’t seen in too long. The clock above it says it’s around noon. There’s a few candles scattered around the room for light, so it’s safe to say that there’s no power in the house. A bulldog is curled up on the floor on the other side of the coffee table; Patrick croaks out its name, and it perks up, whipping its head around to look at him. “Hey, Hemmy,” Patrick whispers, smiling tiredly, and the dog bounds over to him.

He’s in the middle of a fervent face licking when Pete emerges from the adjacent room carrying a steaming plate and a bottle of red Gatorade. Hemmingway’s attention is immediately diverted to his owner and he abandons Patrick to waddle over to the other man’s feet.

Patrick grunts as he slowly pushes himself into a sitting position, aching all over. He looks up as Pete approaches the couch, and for the first time in over a year, their eyes meet.

As if on cue, Patrick’s fill with tears.

Pete doesn’t say a word. He sets the plate—which contains fresh scrambled eggs and a few sausages, so the gas grill must still be working—and the bottle on the coffee table and sits down beside Patrick before gathering the smaller man in his arms. Pete’s scent and his heartbeat against Patrick’s cheek are too much for the singer’s exhausted body to resist, and he clings to Pete as tightly as he can manage as he sobs into his shirt, withholding nothing. A year of remorse and loneliness and yearning pours out of Patrick’s eyes and mouth and he knows he should be embarrassed by this pathetic display, but he just doesn’t care.

Pete doesn’t miss a beat. He presses kisses into Patrick’s mussed hair and whispers mindless reassurances to him that Patrick can’t even decipher through his own sobs. At some point he starts rocking Patrick gently back and forth, letting him cry for as long as he needs to. Patrick has no idea how long that will be—he’d cry forever if it meant Pete would keep holding him like this.

It ends up lasting about fifteen minutes. Patrick’s sobs diminish into hiccups and then short, hitched breaths, but Pete never lets go of him. The younger man keeps his swollen eyes closed and he sniffles intermittently, pressing his face into Pete’s chest and fisting his hands in Pete’s sweater. He never wants to move from this spot; he just wants to stay like this, wrapped up in Pete’s arms, reassuring himself that Pete is okay and that he doesn’t completely hate Patrick.

He _doesn’t_ hate Patrick…right?

When he’s mostly stopped shaking, Patrick slowly, reluctantly extracts himself from Pete’s hold and leans back to look at him. Before he can open his mouth to speak, Pete produces a box of tissues from God knows where and gives Patrick a handful. The younger man blows his nose and dries his eyes and cheeks, knowing he probably looks like a fucking mess.

“Okay,” Pete says when Patrick is back to a semi-normal state. “You knew this question was coming, so I’ll just go ahead and ask it: What the hell are you doing here?”

The bassist doesn’t sound angry, just concerned and genuinely curious. Patrick looks up at him and takes a moment to assess his appearance: he’s gained back most of the weight he’d lost after the divorce, thankfully, so his face isn’t so gaunt anymore and his arms are firm and strong beneath the sleeves of his sweater. His hair is shorter than usual and spiked up, and there’s no sign of eyeliner around his gorgeous whiskey eyes, which is different but welcome. His lips are lightly chapped and turned downwards in a worried frown; Patrick wants to lean in and kiss them till they bleed.

But he doesn’t. Not yet. He clears his throat and coughs before he finally answers Pete’s question. “I tried calling you yesterday—or, um, two days ago, I guess—‘cuz I’d been following the blizzard on the news and I…wanted to know if you were okay. When the call dropped, I…well, I guess I freaked out.” Embarrassed, he bites his lip and glances down at his own hands in his lap. It’s only then that he realizes he’s dressed in a baggy grey tee shirt and flannel sweatpants; Pete must have gotten him out of his wet clothes from last night. He tries not to blush at the thought and continues. “S-So I got on a five a.m. flight to Chicago the next morning, but it had to land in Iowa since O’Hare was closed. As soon as we got there I rented a car, and I started driving, and I tried calling you again but it didn’t go through so I kept going, even when the weather got worse and worse, and even when my car got stuck and I had to walk three miles in the snow, because I had to see you, I _had_ to, ‘cuz I wanted to make sure you were alright a-and I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for leaving you and being so selfish and s-stupid and let you know you’re still my b-best friend and I love you so m-much and oh my god, Pete, _Pete,_ I-I _missed_ you…”

Patrick’s in tears again halfway through his speech, but he keeps babbling until he can’t anymore. Pete shakes his head and tugs Patrick into another hug, running a hand through Patrick’s hair. The singer hides his face in Pete’s neck and wraps his arms around Pete’s middle, weeping softly. He can’t stop repeating the words “sorry” and “love you” over and over, gasping them out into Pete’s skin and desperately hoping Pete can tell how sincere he is.

He’s not sure when Pete starts talking, too, but at some point he hears his friend murmuring in his ear: “’Trick, Patrick, _PatrickPatrickPatrick,_ it’s okay, it’s alright, sssh, it’s all okay, I forgive you, I forgave you ages ago, I’ll always forgive you, I love you, I _love_ you, Patrick, I forgive you…”

Those words eventually calm Patrick down again. He sniffles and clings to Pete tightly, reveling in the way they fit together like two notes in a harmony. They _still_ fit, even after everything, and it’s the greatest comfort Patrick could ask for. He doesn’t let go of Pete even after his breathing is steady and the tears have dried on his cheeks.

Soon the smell of the hot food nearby is making Patrick’s stomach growl almost constantly. Pete gently nudges him back and instructs him to eat with a kind smile. He sits shoulder-to-shoulder with Patrick on the couch as the singer scarfs down the eggs, and they talk as he refuels. Patrick tells Pete about touring for _Soul Punk_ and finds out that Pete had followed him online, watching every video of any performance he could find. Pete tells Patrick about the girlfriend he’d had for a few months and that he’s been back in therapy since August—apparently, he’s finally cutting back on his meds. “I hope I’ll eventually be completely unmedicated,” he says with a proud gleam in his eyes. “I’m getting better, ‘Trick.”

Patrick takes a gulp of the Gatorade and sighs, guilt creeping over him once again. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there,” he says quietly. “I’m—God, I’m sorry for so much—”

“And I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you during the release of your album—which is incredible, by the way, holy shit,” Pete replies with a tiny grin. It fades a moment later. “I didn’t—I can’t believe you came all the way here. I remember you calling me, but the connection was so bad that I couldn’t understand a word you were saying. I’m sorry I didn’t let you know I forgave you earlier—it would’ve spared you the hypothermia.”

“And the guilt. And the worry. And the fucking depression I slipped into when I thought I’d finally pushed you away for good. But I deserved all that, I really did.” Patrick shakes his head and sets the plate and the drink back on the coffee table before turning to look at Pete earnestly. _“I_ was the one who was selfish and megalomaniacal. _I’m_ the disappointment, not you. It was never you. Everything that happened and didn’t happen—all of it—it’s all my fault, Pete; I shouldn’t have—”

“No, Patrick.” Pete reaches out and grabs Patrick’s (still mildly chilly) hands in his own and squeezes them. Patrick’s heart skips. Pete stares at him solemnly, determination in his eyes. “It’s not all your fault. We were both fucked up, and we both fucked up, and what happened happened but I know I didn’t mean a word of anything I said that day.”

“Neither did I,” Patrick insists, clutching Pete’s hands in a desperate grip. “I-I didn’t, I swear.”

“I know,” Pete assures him, nodding, and Patrick sighs quietly in relief. “So…what I think should happen is we should put it behind us. Yeah, it was ugly and painful and neither of us will probably ever forget it, but I—I think I just want to…” He trails off, struggling to find the right word.

Patrick jumps in, effortlessly taking on his old role as Pete’s voice. “…want to start over,” he finishes, smiling.

Pete nods. “Yeah.” He grins widely back at Patrick and his eyes crinkle at the corners and Patrick’s heart swells. “Yeah, I wanna start over. And on top of that, I wanna make sure it never happens again.”

“Me too,” Patrick agrees, nodding. His voice breaks a little when he adds, “I never wanna lose you again.”

“You won’t,” Pete says seriously, running his thumbs in slow circles over the backs of Patrick’s hands. “I promise you, you won’t.”

Patrick’s smile quavers a bit and he pulls Pete in for a hug, wrapping his arms securely around Pete’s neck. “And you won’t lose me, either,” he swears against Pete’s temple, and he means every word. “From now on, you’re stuck with me, Pete Wentz. I’m never leaving you again.”

Pete hugs him back for a few moments, then pulls away to study Patrick’s face with a furrowed brow. He stares at the younger man intensely, seemingly assessing him, and Patrick tries not to flinch away from the scrutiny.

Several long seconds later, Pete blinks a couple times, and his face lights up. “It’s really you,” he whispers in awe, eyes wide. “You’re back. Patrick, _my_ Patrick, you’re _back.”_

The words Pete had said to him after their fight come rushing back to Patrick all at once and his throat closes up with emotion. “Yeah, Pete, I’m back,” he says, moving a hand to smooth his thumb over Pete’s cheekbone. “It’s me, and I’m not going anywhere ever again.”

“Oh God,” Pete chokes out, and the next thing Patrick knows, he’s getting the breath kissed out of him.

Pete’s hands are cupping the sides of Patrick’s face and his lips are moving against Patrick’s and all the younger man can think to do is kiss back, wrapping his arms tight around Pete’s waist. He feels whole and happy and safe for the first time in so, so long, and he can’t control the frantic whine that breaks free from his mouth when he parts his lips to invite Pete in. When their tongues brush, first on accident and then very, very deliberately, Patrick’s sure his heart bursts from his chest and he tugs Pete closer, tangling one shaking hand in his thick, dark hair. He never wants this to end, never wants to let go of this moment or this man; he’d be perfectly content with never breathing again if it meant Pete would never stop kissing him. He wants to stay in Pete’s arms forever, and if he has his way, he’s going to.

But then the sheer _absurdity_ of this whole situation hits Patrick like a punch in the gut. Tearing himself away from Pete is one of the hardest things he’s ever done, but he has to, just for a second. “Pete,” he pants, forcing his eyes open, before he rests his hands on Pete’s chest. “Pete, what—what was—?”

“That,” Pete declares, eyes dark and lips deliciously kiss-bitten, “was something I’ve wanted to do for ten fucking years.” He leans in again to mouth lightly at Patrick’s neck, and Patrick gasps, tipping his head back instinctively. “Patrick, I—God, I missed you, missed you so much, please just let me do this—”

“Oh—Pete, wait, w-wait, please, just a second…” Patrick leans back and gently pushes Pete away. When their eyes meet again, the singer reaches up to trace Pete’s lips with his fingertips, staring at him in awe. It takes a moment for him to find his voice. “I…Are you sure?” he asks uncertainly, pulse racing. “This—this is kind of a big thing, and it might fuck up the band if we ever get together again, and we haven’t seen each other in thirteen fucking months…”

Pete blinks at him quizzically. A spark of hurt flashes in his eyes. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying…I want this,” Patrick clarifies, and he pulls Pete closer so he can rest their foreheads together. He takes a deep breath and licks his lips, sliding his hands up to the sides of Pete’s neck. “I-I want this so bad, have for so long, but I’m afraid we might—what if it—fuck, I just really don’t wanna fuck this up.”

“We won’t.” Pete kisses him again, slow and deep and hopeful, and Patrick lets him. “Patrick, it’s _us._ We can’t fuck it up. And I know what you’re gonna say,” he adds quickly as Patrick opens his mouth to object. “We did fuck up last year. And we’ve had other fights. But ‘Trick, we’ve gotten through every single one of them just fine.” He nuzzles Patrick’s nose with his own and Patrick can’t help the smile that stretches across his face. “Yeah, we’re gonna fight some more, but every friendship—every _relationship_ —has fights. As long as they don’t get, like, really violent and hurtful, it’s usually a sign that you’re doing it right.” He leans back and smiles at Patrick so sincerely that Patrick feels the little cracks in his heart start mending. “I…I wanna do this right. And I wanna do it with you, because you’re Patrick Stump and I’m Pete Wentz and we’re fucking soulmates. I love you. I’m in love with you, and I’m done running from it. So there.” He sits back and smirks, crossing his arms over his chest. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

Well. There’s only one right answer to a question like that.

Patrick’s still achy all over from his trek last night, and he knows he’s dehydrated and he hasn’t showered in two days, but every dream he’s ever had has just come true and if he doesn’t kiss Pete in the next two seconds the universe might end. So he does, climbing out from under the blanket that’s still covering his legs. He loops his arms around Pete’s neck and scoots forwards until he’s straddling Pete’s thighs, and when Pete hums against his lips and his warm hands come to rest on his hips and squeeze, he’s finally home.

Which reminds him.

“Merry Christmas, Pete,” the singer breathes into Pete’s mouth, rolling his hips down and shuddering at the friction. “Sorry I— _ah_ —didn’t get you anything.”

“You kidding?” Pete tightens his hold on Patrick’s hips and bucks up to meet his movements; they both gasp as their rapidly-growing erections brush together through _too much_ fabric. “Best Christmas present ever.” He reaches down to palm Patrick through the thin fabric of his sweats, rubbing firmly. “Can I unwrap it?”

Patrick pushes his hips into Pete’s hand and stutters out a broken moan, throwing his head back. “Yes, y-yeah, God, please—”

“Bed first,” Pete growls, craning up to nip at Patrick’s neck. “Wanna spread you out, see what these hips can do. The way you move them onstage, ‘Trick, _fucking_ hell…”

“O-Oh…” Patrick grinds against Pete’s hand harder, sparks shooting up and down his spine. “Pete, _fuck,_ c’mon then, take me to bed.”

“Okay.” And Pete’s definitely gotten most of his strength back from last year, because he hooks his arms under Patrick’s ass and stands, lifting Patrick with ease. The younger man yelps with surprise and wraps his legs around Pete’s waist, tightening his hold around his neck. When Pete leans up to kiss him again, though, he gets distracted.

Pete carries Patrick all the way upstairs to his dark bedroom, never once breaking the kiss. Patrick gasps when he’s dropped onto the unmade bed and Pete climbs over him, attacking his lips and neck with brutal, biting, possessive kisses. Patrick just moans and lets it happen.

“Kinda glad I lost power now,” Pete rumbles as he sucks a bruise under Patrick’s jaw. “The candlelight is romantic.”

“Oh my god, you fucking sap,” Patrick laughs breathlessly, but he doesn’t disagree.

When neither of them can stand the lack of friction any longer, Pete pushes himself up on his hands and stares down at Patrick hungrily. Patrick blushes at the heat in Pete’s eyes but manages to rub enough brain cells together to choke out, “Shirts off?”

“Hell yeah,” Pete says with a wicked grin and immediately whips his sweater up and over his head, tossing it somewhere across the room. And God, he’s gorgeous. Because of the broken heating, goosebumps are already scattered over his tan flesh from the mild chill in the air; his tattoos look even more delicious than Patrick remembers, and his hands immediately fly up to touch them, tracing every line of the thorn necklace and skimming down Pete’s chest to scratch at the bartskull below his bellybutton. Pete hisses through his teeth and his hips twitch down against Patrick’s. “ _Shit_. C’mon, your turn.”

Pete’s hands go to the hem of Patrick’s loose tee shirt and he slowly takes it off, knocking the glasses off the singer’s face in the process. A blast of cold air hits Patrick’s bare skin and he bites his lip, blushing darker. “I…I look different,” he says softly, bringing his arms up to cover himself. He’s memorized the shape, size, and location of every stretch mark littering his stomach, sides, and legs, and he knows each of them are hideous. Besides that, he can’t help but wonder if Pete only likes him for this new body he’s managed to make—he hadn’t shown this kind of interest in Patrick three years ago, when the singer was nearly 200 pounds.

Pete just kisses him tenderly. “You look like Patrick,” he murmurs when he pulls back, skimming his fingers lightly up Patrick’s sides. “You’re _beautiful_. Always have been. It’s always been so fucking hard for me to keep my hands off you; why d’you think I was always hanging all over you during shows? You’re so fucking beautiful, ‘Trick, so gorgeous, so perfect, inside and out, backwards and forwards. I’ve never stopped thinking that and I never will. I promise.”

Something amazing happens, then: Patrick believes him.

Maybe it’s a Christmas miracle.

Things progress rather rapidly after that. Before Patrick knows it, they’re both stripped to their boxers and Pete’s slithering down his body, kissing and lapping at his pale, lightly furred chest. When his tongue finds a nipple, Patrick’s back arches off the mattress. He twists his fists into the sheets and whines, long and low. “Ohgod, _fuck…_ ”

“Like that, Patrick?” Pete laves his tongue over the nub again before fitting his lips around it and sucking gently, reaching up to pinch the other one with one hand.

“Yesyesyes _yes!”_ Patrick cries, tossing his head to the side as he throbs in his boxers. “O-Ohmygod, Pete, _Pete_ —”

“Thought you might.” Pete scrapes his teeth lightly over the sensitive skin and trails his hand down to pluck at the elastic around Patrick’s waist. “Can I?”

Patrick nods frantically and lifts his hips so Pete can tug his underwear down and off.

Patrick’s seen Pete naked before—albeit against his will—but the situation has never been reversed until now. The younger man squirms under Pete’s scrutiny and his blush spreads down his chest.

“So hot,” Pete whispers, running his eyes lasciviously up and down Patrick’s body. His gaze feels like another set of hands caressing Patrick’s skin. “Oh wow, Patrick, fucking _fuck,_ you’re so beautiful.” He leans down for one more kiss, then backs up and settles between Patrick’s spread legs.

Patrick only registers what’s about to happen a fraction of a second before it does. Pete grips the base of Patrick’s cock firmly in one strong, calloused hand, and leans in to fit his lips over the head.

 _“Fu-uck!”_ It’s a good thing Pete’s holding his hips down, because Patrick instantly bucks up into the wet heat of Pete’s mouth. “Fuck, yes, oh, _ooh,_ fuckfuckfuck…” His head spins and all he can do is whimper and gasp and moan at the top of his lungs as Pete starts to suck hard and bob his head, looking up at Patrick through his dark lashes. Patrick can only watch for a few seconds before his arms give out and he collapses back onto the bed, writhing and crying out, mindless with it.

Pete blows him for a good minute or so before he hums around his mouthful and pulls off, jacking Patrick fast and hard. When Patrick works up the strength to glance down again, he sees how swollen and spit-slick Pete’s mouth is, and he almost comes on the spot.

“What do you want, ‘Trick?” the bassist asks in a rough voice. He leans forwards and presses light, loving kisses to the lightning-shaped marks stretching over the soft flesh of Patrick’s thin hips.

Patrick wants to say _fuck me, bruise me, make me feel it for a week_ but what he says instead is, “Wanna be close to you.” He swallows hard and licks his lips, reaching down to tug at Pete’s wrist and pull him back up to where Patrick can kiss him. “Want—w-want you against me, wanna f-feel you come on me, _please,_ Pete…”

“Fuck.” Pete drops down to capture Patrick’s mouth in a filthy kiss that makes Patrick’s toes curl. “How can I argue with that?”

Seven seconds of unbearable suspense later, Pete’s boxers are gone and he’s lying naked and hot on top of Patrick, covering him like the heavy coat Patrick didn’t have last night. Their cocks are both hard and leaking and they line up perfectly when Pete settles his hips against Patrick’s, sucking at the bolt of his jaw. Patrick wraps his legs around Pete’s waist and grinds up; Pete answers with a gasp and a downward thrust, and soon they find a torturous but perfect rhythm.

The friction is dry and almost painful, but they both love it. Patrick digs his nails into Pete’s sweat-slicked back and squeezes his eyes shut as he whimpers in Pete’s ear. He’d missed the feeling of Pete so close to him, and this is more than fulfilling his need for that contact. He twists his hips up viciously, meeting Pete’s movements, and sobs at the feeling. “Oh, _oh_ , Pete, yes, _fuck_ , so good, s-sofuckinggood—”

Pete’s face is pressed into the crook of Patrick’s neck, but Patrick can still hear the muffled, desperate gasps Pete’s making. The bassist speeds up his hips, struggling to keep himself propped up on his elbows as the pleasure mounts. “God, ‘Trick,” he forces out, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Patrick’s neck. “Pa-aatrick, fuck, oh…o-oh _God_ …”

“F-Fuck me,” Patrick whines. He knows they can’t do it right now—neither of them would last—but even saying it makes Pete choke out a strangled moan, so he repeats it. “Fuck me, Pete, fuckmefuckmefuck— _a-ah_ —!”

“I will,” Pete breathes, turning to kiss Patrick hard. “I-I will, next time, I promise—”

“Good,” Patrick moans into Pete’s mouth. Fuck, he wants that, wants to feel Pete inside him, filling him up, making him whole. He’s never felt it before—never been with a guy like this before—but with Pete, he wants everything.

“Love you.” Pete drives his hips against Patrick’s as hard as he can, pinning their cocks between their stomachs and increasing the tension with every thrust. “Fuck, I—I love you, Patrick, love you s-so much—” In a shocking move, he reaches down between them and wraps his hand around both them at once, stroking and thrusting at the same time. Patrick shouts in surprise and tightens the vice of his legs around Pete’s waist as Pete pushes himself up, stares down into Patrick’s eyes, and growls, “Come on, Patrick, let go, c-come for me, p-please, wanna see you…”

That’s all it takes. Three more strokes and Patrick loses it, arching up and _wailing_ as he shoots all over Pete’s hand and both their stomachs. The waves are almost too intense and he barely keeps himself conscious as he sobs and convulses beneath Pete, pulsing in the strong hand that’s milking every drop out of him.

When it’s over, Patrick can hardly breathe. He barely registers his own hand reaching down to cover Pete’s, but he _does_ notice when Pete cries out his name and comes between them with a loud, desperate groan. Gasping, the bassist lets Patrick finish him off before collapsing down on top of him, boneless.

Patrick waits for both of them to stop trembling before he squirms and lets out an uncomfortable grunt. Pete takes the hint and rolls off of him, reaching behind himself to grab blindly at a blanket and tug it over them.

“We should really shower,” Patrick suggests, but there’s no urgency behind his voice whatsoever. He shifts to rest his head on Pete’s chest; a familiar tattooed arm comes up to wrap around him and tug him closer.

“Don’t have a lot of hot water,” Pete replies, sounding sleepy, and Patrick feels him nuzzle into his sweat-damp hair. “Pipes are all frozen.”

“Sooooo we shower together.” Patrick chuckles and starts tracing idle shapes on Pete’s bare, still-heaving chest. “Problem solved.”

Pete kisses his forehead. “I love the way you think.”

“I love you.” Patrick bites his lip, then pushes himself up on one unsteady arm to gaze down at the most incredible human being in the universe. That human being is staring up at him in awe like Patrick’s a Christmas angel, so Patrick continues. “I’m in love with you, and I wanna do this right, too. You’re the—God, Pete, you just—I love you. _So_ much. And I promise you right now that we will never be apart again.”

Pete smiles shakily up at him and pulls him down for a slow, sweet kiss. It feels like an ending and a beginning and a whole story in itself all at once.

 _“The weather outside is frightful,”_ Pete sings softly against Patrick’s mouth, beaming. _“But, my dear, you’re so delightful…”_

Patrick giggles at the fudged lyrics but he continues the song anyway. _“Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow…”_

He repeats the words over and over until they both fall asleep in the muted light of a Christmas afternoon.

###


End file.
